Paths of Glory eBook

In the black gloom we could make out a longish clump
of men who stood four abreast, scuffling their feet
upon the miry wet stones of the square. These
were the prisoners—­one hundred and fifty
Frenchmen and Turcos, eighty Englishmen and eight
Belgians. From them, as we drew near, an odor
of wet, unwashed animals arose. It was as rank
and raw as fumes from crude ammonia. Then, in
the town house of the Prince de Caraman-Chimay just
alongside, the double doors opened, and the light
streaming out fell upon the naked bayonets over the
shoulders of the sentries and made them look like
slanting lines of rain.

There were eight of us by now in the party of guests,
our original group of five having been swollen by
the addition of three others—­the Frenchman
Gerbeaux, the American artist Stevens and the Belgian
court-photographer Hennebert, who had been under
arrest for five days. We eight, obeying instructions—­no,
requests—­found places for ourselves in
the double files of guards, four going one side of
the column and four the other. I slipped into
a gap on the left flank, alongside four of the English
soldiers. The guard immediately behind me was
a man I knew. He had been on duty the afternoon
previous in the place where we were being kept, and
he had been obliging enough to let me exercise my few
words of German upon him. He grinned now in recognition
and humorously patted the stock of his rifle—­this
last, I take it, being his effort to convey to my
understanding that he was under orders to shoot me
in the event of my seeking to play truant during the
next hour or so. He didn’t know me—­wild
horses could not have dragged us apart.

A considerable wait ensued. Officers, coming
back from the day’s battle lines in automobiles,
jumped out of their cars and pressed up, bedraggled
and wet through from the rain which had been falling,
to have a look at the prisoners. Common soldiers
appeared also. Of these latter many, I judged,
had newly arrived at the front and had never seen
any captured enemies before. They were particularly
interested in the Englishmen, who as nearly as I could
tell endured the scrutinizing pretty well, whereas
the Frenchmen grew uneasy and self-conscious under
it. We who were in civilian dress—­and
pretty shabby civilian dress at that—­came
in for our share of examination too. The sentries
were kept busy explaining to newcomers that we were
not spies going north for trial. There was little
or no jeering at the prisoners.

Lieutenant Mittendorfer appeared to feel the burden
of his authority mightily. His importance expressed
itself in many bellowing commands to his men.
As he passed the door of headquarters, booming like
a Prussian night-bittern, one of the officers there
checked him with a gesture.

“Why all the noise, Herr Lieutenant?”
he said pleasantly in German. “Cannot this
thing be done more quietly?”